I step between the head
stones, make my way
to the one place
that has held sway
over my life for so
by the open expanse
of brown grass,
white marble and
polished granite, no
visible certainties exist, only
grey stone cherubs
by time and trial.
the narrow lane, the
in pristine rows
of Stars of
David etched on black,
and polished stones
left on mothers’ graves
after a whispered
where the children lie
the angels accost me
from every side—
a multitude of dominion in
plaster and cement,
on bended knees,
or with hands raised
like Michael, the warrior
—always hovering, voiceless
of the ophanim
and the seraphim.
Muted by their silence
I collect branches, scattered
debris, empty beer
blown faded petals, the
refuse of the living
strewn across the dead.
I become the caretaker
of the forgotten.
In this place—
this hollow hallowed
stretch of waste-
land—my decades-old dreams
have lain fallow,
here in this godless
bank of biers,
awash in autumn roses
and neatly trimmed box-
love our departed
of our living.
Who knows, truly,
the prayers the angels whisper
when no one can hear,
or the secrets buried
in the hearts
of the dead.
“The central fact of my life has been the existence of words and the possibility of weaving those words into poetry.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges, This Craft of Verse
This poem came to me a few words at a time, the rough opening lines a few weeks ago, and then they took shape as I drove Brett to school on Monday. The rest came over the past few days. Tuesday night I could not sleep until I committed the middle to paper, and I’m glad that I did as too often I say to myself, I will remember in the morning, and I never do.
It’s still a bit rough, but I think that I’m almost there.
Late prayer for my daughter, heavy now with child
your father brought me lilacs
pale purple blossoms
to quell my anger.
you sat so still,
holding your sister,
mere weeks from the womb.
Your Easter dress—
covered with pink rosebuds,
the picture I took,
lost somewhere to time.
you wait for your own girl child,
counting down the days,
a mere wisp on your lips
where happiness untroubled once dwelled.
Memories of other Aprils
reminders of spring’s inconstancy.
both heaven and hell in my heart
like a tea cup full of fragrant blooms.
“I just think that some things are meant to be broken. Imperfect. Chaotic. It’s the universe’s way of providing contrast, you know? There have to be a few holes in the road. It’s how life is.” ~ Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever
Friday afternoon. Not too cold, 40’s. Melting snow.
Well, I have had a fairly productive afternoon. I called my gynecologist’s office to see how much an out-of-network visit for an established patient would cost, and quelle surpise! Turns out they do accept my new health insurance—even though they weren’t on the website’s list of providers.
When I spoke with one of the women in the billing office, I think that I confused her by saying that I wanted to pay the out-of-network price for an exam, but then she said, “We do accept XXX insurance.” Really? You’re not kidding, are you because that would be too cruel . . .
Hmm. Things that make you go hmm . . .
So I called my gastroenterologist’s office just out of curiosity. Turns out, they also accept my new health insurance, and no, they were not on the list of providers on the company’s website.
Curiouser and curiouser.
I called the mental health provider that I want to change to, but seems they take Friday afternoons off. Lucky them. So two out of three today isn’t bad at all. I must say. Not that I’m going to take back any of my ranting and railing at the complete and utter nonsense that I went through the other day. I don’t do take backs for corporations or politicians just on principle (since neither the former nor the latter have any, principles, that is).
“L’acte d’écrire prend le dessus et devient son propre sujet.” (The act of writing takes over and becomes its own subject.) ~ Robert Wasler
One thing that I forgot to mention in my last real post (Dr. Who poster doesn’t count as a real post, at least not in my mind, even though it’s fun) is that I submitted my poem for the contest. After leaving it alone for several days, I went back to it and found that it was a completely different poem than the one with which I had begun. The new poem actually hummed in its rhythm. I realized that my first concept for the poem was truly too structured for me to progress.
Quatrains. I have written in quatrains before, but the subject of this poem did not require such structure. It needed to be allowed to flow and to roam, and the words needed to be married and separated and allowed to run into each other if need be.
Then I left it alone for a few more days while I pondered an appropriate title. I’m still not certain about the title that I chose to use for the submission, but unlike some writers, I am not always loyal to titles when I revise. I have gone back years later to a poem and realized that the very thing that kept the poem from working was the title that I had originally bestowed upon it.
Anyway, I submitted it a few days before the deadline, and now we’ll just have to wait and see. I may or may not post the poem on this blog, just depends on . . . well, depends on lots of things.
“Unexpected intrusions of beauty. That is what life is.” ~ Saul Bellow, Herzog
All of the snow from two nights ago has melted. In fact, most of it was gone when I woke up yesterday. I remember looking out the bathroom window around 3 a.m. (Thursday), and it was absolutely beautiful. Part of me wanted to run outside and take photographs. The other part of me, the cold part, decided against shooting photographs in my pajamas (as if my neighbors don’t already think that I’m more than a bit whacky).
Now that it’s gone, I sort of wish that I had followed my impulse. It’s probably because I don’t live in an area that gets lots of snow, but I just love it when it snows here. The air has a certain clean smell, unlike anything else, and in the middle of the night, when no cars are about, it’s completely silent. The world is blanketed and beautiful and seemingly full of possibilities.
I suppose if I lived up north somewhere, like Michigan or Alaska, I would probably not find the snow quite so mystical. Who knows.
I remember a particular snowfall in Blacksburg. It had snowed hard during the night and all of the next day. That night my ex and I went walking. It was very quiet as we were just about the only people out. We climbed one of the hills, and looked out. The sky had cleared, and the stars were out. I still remember that night so clearly. Everything looked and smelled so perfect. One of those moments in time, I suppose.
“often i ask myself in the dark whether you feel the glitter of words and see their souls unfurled.”~ Tzveta Sofronieva, from “(m)other words”, trans. by Chantal Wright
If I were ever to live somewhere where the winters were very cold, and it snowed frequently, there are a few things on my list of preferences that I would have to have:
A gas insert for a fireplace for warming hands and feet after being out in the cold
A deep, claw-footed bathtub, preferably with a fireplace or radiator in the room, for long, hot soaks, and a skylight above the tub to see the night sky
A towel warmer (Okay, don’t have to have this, but have you ever used one? Oooh. Pure luxury.)
Radiant heat below the kitchen and bathroom(s) floors. Mike Holmes (“Holmes on Homes”) swears by this stuff
A camera that can shoot snowflakes as they fall
A hot tub. Okay. I want this one no matter where I live because I know that my back would thank me for it each and every time I used it. But sitting in a hot tub while surrounded by snow is just so cool. And yes, I have done this, and I loved it.
Some very cool lined rubber boots. I love rubber boots, always have, but they have just come back into style in the past few years. I suppose that I could buy some to wear in the rain here, but honestly, there are so many other things that money could be spent on that I just can’t justify buying fashionable rubber boots.
Oh, and a Samoyed. I love those dogs, had one once for a few months but it caused a very ugly scene with a roommate. It’s just too hot and humid here for them to be really comfortable. Other than Labradors, Samoyeds and Huskies rank up there in my list of dogs that I would own.
Obviously, I’ve given some thought to this list. However, I don’t foresee moving anywhere cold anytime soon. Corey hates the cold, and is not that crazy about snow, either. Probably comes from growing up in Ohio, which can get pretty cold and tends to have snow. He wants warm to hot. I’ll settle for temperate.
Of course, all of this is pure pipe dream at this point, but that’s what we’re living on: a hope, a dream, and a prayer.
More later. Peace.
Music by Sheryl Crow and Sting, “Always on Your Side.” Love, love this.